


Sonata

by RadiantSeraphina (Lady_Arrowwood)



Category: Kirby (Video Games), Kirby - All Media Types
Genre: Child Abuse, Coming of Age, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:56:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7917769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Arrowwood/pseuds/RadiantSeraphina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-canon. Before becoming a powerful, galaxy-conquering wizard, Nightmare was an usurped sorcerer-king with only a young puffball for company. And though his first resistance was small, Nightmare's anger was great.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sorcerer-King

Nightmare’s eyes roved over the pages of the book. This volume had looked promising, but he was having a difficult time finding the desired spell. With a scowl, he threw the book to the floor, where it joined the other failed volumes. There were about fifty littering the floor of his study. 

 

 _Crash!_ Nightmare clenched his firsts and snarled. This was difficult enough without that wayward boy in the other room breaking things. The wizard left his chair and strode into the cottage’s only other room. It was a cramped space, and every surface—from the top of the old piano to the floor—was covered in books, parchment, and drying herbs. Sunlight gave Nightmare headaches, so the curtains were pulled tightly over the single window, causing the space to be dark even in broad daylight.

 

The wizard’s eyes landed on a particularly disheveled pile of books, and he glided over. A heavy volume on the uses of herbs shifted from the stack, and a small, midnight-blue paw appeared from underneath. Nightmare crossed his arms and silently waited for the rest of the child to appear. The air was thick with guilt and fear. The child had known Nightmare wouldn’t be pleased with being interrupted, and Nightmare had no intention of assuaging such fears.

 

Moments later, the book was shoved aside. Wide, gold eyes set in a round face, marred with purple blush-marks, peered at him. “Fatha-poy,” the child said, his voice trembling.

 

The use of _poy_ grated on Nightmare's nerves. He'd tried very hard to keep Meta from using his species' baby-talk, but the puffball still had a tendency to slip into it. However, it was the lesser of the child's crimes. “Meta,” the wizard said, his voice low and dangerous. “I believe I asked you to clean. Where’s the Bubble power-up?”

 

Meta averted his eyes and looked guiltily at his feet. “Dat was four days awgo, Fatha.”

 

Nightmare stared hard at the young puffball. Had he really been in his study for _four days_? That hadn’t been his intention, and Nightmare had forbidden Meta to interrupt him, when he was in his study. The puffball had understandably gotten bored, after being all but abandoned for days.

 

It was easier to blame Meta than to blame himself, however, and the child’s guilt tasted _so_ sweet. “I believe I also asked you to be quiet,” Nightmare said.

 

Meta’s tiny wings drooped and twitched anxiously. “Poyo,” he mumbled.

 

The wizard pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m doing something very important, Meta. Why don’t you read your fairy tales or something? What are you even doing?”

 

The puffball guiltily shuffled his feet. “Bwanching.”

 

“Branching?”

 

Meta nodded. “I…I wanted to fwy.”

 

“To fly,” Nightmare said flatly.

 

Meta winced. The wizard took a deep breath. In a way, he’d brought this on himself. It was his own magic that’d given Meta his wings—not that Meta knew that—and Nightmare should’ve guessed that Meta would be eager to try them. Flight was clearly impossible, though. Meta’s wings were far too tiny, and even Nightmare wasn’t certain whether the wings would keep growing or remain as they were. Like Meta, who was little enough to fit in the palm of Nightmare’s hand, the wings were too small and too cute. “You needn’t look so disheartened,” Nightmare said. “I’m not going to punish you.”

 

Meta lit up, face bright with relief. It was a pity that Nightmare’s powers hadn’t managed to do anything about Meta’s _face_. His first and dear monster was an abomination of stardust and dark magic and absolutely adorable. “But I think that’s enough branching for today,” Nightmare said. “You must wait until your wings are much larger, before you try something like that. Did you hurt yourself?”

 

Meta’s blush-marks pinkened in embarrassment. He twitched his wings and picked himself up, nudging aside a heavy volume about potion-making. “Jus’ a wittle,” Meta replied.

 

Nightmare hummed. “Has it really been four days, Meta?”

 

Meta nodded. “But you jus’ fo’got because Fatha-poy doesn’t eat wike me,” Meta said hurriedly.

 

Nightmare did need to eat, but he fed off nightmares and fears. Of course, Meta didn’t know that; Nightmare let the child know very little. “I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I?” Nightmare asked, striding away.

 

“No, poyo!” Meta protested.

 

So eager to please. The wizard opened the cabinet where he kept the candy jar and plucked a piece out. “Have a treat, little one,” he said.

 

Meta took the candy with a squeak of delight and popped it in his mouth. The candy was laced with Nightmare’s magic, unbeknownst to Meta. It was the wizard’s great experiment.

 

Their first meeting hadn’t been ideal. Nightmare had killed the witch who’d called herself Meta’s mother, and the puffball had taken it upon himself to avenge her. He’d failed, of course. Meta had been too young to be a threat, and his attempt to inhale Nightmare’s magic left him nearly dead. The wizard had fully expected his magic to tear the tiny puffball apart, but it hadn’t. Days later, Meta breathed still, even if he was too weak to move or fight anymore. Nightmare didn’t know how or why Meta survived, but he wanted very much to find out.

 

A handful of memories were nothing for a wizard of Nightmare’s power.

  

* * *

 

 

There were fleeting moments where Nightmare wondered if he didn’t—in some twisted little way—legitimately love his adorable things of horrors. Some small, still too-human part of him ached and twisted. He’d locked himself in his study for four days and left the little one to fend for himself. The wizard needed to work harder; such impulses were a detriment. Nightmare tucked Meta into bed and seated himself in a nearby chair. “Would you like a story, little one?” the wizard asked.

 

Meta’s blush-marks brightened, and he smiled widely. “Poyo!”

 

The wizard hummed and pretended to think about a story, like he hadn’t already had one planned from the beginning. “Once,” Nightmare began. “There was a king, who was also a very skilled in the magical arts.”

 

That much was true. “And the kingdom prospered, but in this kingdom, there were nobles who were jealous of the king’s great powers.”

 

Nightmare paused, considering. Meta ought to figure in this story, too. “One day, the king was taking his evening stroll through the gardens, when he found a small, injured creature. It was an incarnation, a creature of magic, and the wizard took pity on it,” Nightmare said.

 

Meta’s smile faded. “The nobles were afraid of it. They wanted to kill it and steal its magic,” Nightmare said, “But the king refused to allow it. This was the last straw for the nobles, so they overthrew the king. He fled with the incarnation. The king ran for many days, until he certain that he and the incarnation were safe from harm. There, he began to plan, and he still plans today to take back the kingdom unjustly stolen from him.”

 

“I help!” Meta said. “I be a gweat knight an’ make you pwoud! An’ take back your wealm!”

 

Nightmare smiled at the enthusiasm. Such a loyal child. “I’m sure you will, little one,” Nightmare replied.

 

“Can wield Gwasia,” Meta said, with a hushed whisper, “For poy.”

 

The wizard patted the puffball’s head. “She’d tear you apart, Meta,” Nightmare said. “Galaxia can’t be wielded by creatures of darkness—like you and I.”

 

Meta was quiet for a long moment. “Am I evil?” he finally asked, his voice shaking. “Cause I’m dawk?”

 

“No, but Galaxia doesn’t care,” Nightmare replied. “She was created to destroy darkness, and that’s what she does. The best I can do is keep her away from my enemies, so they can’t use her against me.”

 

Meta nodded solemnly. “But we’re safe here,” Nightmare continued, “Though we must be careful. That’s why you can’t ever leave this house, Meta. You aren’t strong enough to defend yourself from _them_ yet. They’d hurt you.”

 

Nightmare felt Meta’s spark of fear. Fear that he’d be taken away from his beloved father. Fear that he’d have his heart cut out or be cooked in an oven like wayward children in fairy tales always were. The creature was too naïve to realize that the wicked queen was the creature he called Father. “But you’re safe here,” Nightmare cooed, stroking Meta’s disgustingly cute blush-marks.

 

“I know,” Meta said.

 

Nightmare stood and brushed invisible wrinkles from his robes. “I have work to do. Shall I play a song for you, before you fall asleep?”

 

Meta smiled brightly. “Poyo!”

 

Magic had its uses, and with a faint flick of his wrist, Nightmare set the old piano playing a gentle sonata. The notes, pure and calm, flitted through the air, to the fascinated delight of the wide-eyed puffball. Meta would be asleep within an hour; that was always the case. Then, the wizard would send the nightmares and turn the child’s peaceful slumber into an angry and twisted thing. Meta would thrash and whimper in his sleep, and Nightmare would feed off the creature’s fear and misery. “Good night, Fatha!” Meta said, pulling a soft, fluffy blanket over his face.

 

“Yes. Good night, Meta.”

 

The wizard averted his gaze and returned to his study, his keen hearing picking up on the sounds of Meta shuffling around and making himself comfortable. Meta really was a sweet child. Nightmare lounged in his chair and gazed at his reflection in a nearby mirror. His skin was pale and bony, like aspen bark. The wizard’s eyes were almost colorless. His body wasn’t human anymore, but his mind was. He was trying to right a wrong, to regain what had been stolen from him, and furthering his magic— _using that child_ —was necessary. The ends justified the means. Nightmare cocked his head to the side, gazing and judging his own eyes. He might spare Meta the nightmares just for one night. One night to make up for killing the child’s mother, for taking his memories, for making him a monster, for feeding off his despair, for five years of endless nightmares. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was all Nightmare was willing to give.


	2. Tempestuous

Nightmare wasn’t surprised when Meta ventured from the cottage and took his first steps outside. The wizard had been counting on it. The boy had grown uncomfortably curious and restless, so—Nightmare decided—it was time to put Meta back in his place. Thus, the wizard had announced that he would be away for a week. Nightmare hadn’t really left. He’d lingered, watching and waiting, in the trees.

 

At the end of the week, Meta still hadn’t disobeyed, so the wizard, who was patient if nothing else, waited. Eventually, the boy would come out. If his curiosity didn’t drive him to it, fear for his missing father would. And if that also failed, Meta would inevitably run out of food. He’d look for more; of that, the wizard was certain.

 

It took two months for Meta to finally venture forth. Nightmare felt a spark of anger at the boy for meeting his expectations, but there was also a delighted thrill. The wizard hadn’t exercised his vast powers in a long time. He wouldn’t strike right away, though. No, he’d wait and let the boy venture forth a little more.

 

Slowly, Meta stepped onto a carpet of autumn leaves. The rain had ended only hours before and left a soft, soothing scent behind. It was a cool evening with a playful breeze that whispered in the treetops and caressed the dying grace. The child’s gold eyes widened, as he gazed around, enchanted by being outside. Meta had seen autumn before, but he wouldn’t remember it. Was he in awe of autumn’s first breath stirring his blood and caressing the thin membrane of his wings? Or was it the colors of the leaves, undiluted by curtains and made all the more vibrant by the gray sky Nightmare had cast? Or was it the thrill of being unsupervised in such a new, magical world?

 

Meta hadn’t turned back yet.

 

The boy looked around him. Nightmare narrowed his eyes, unsure whether Meta sensed his presence or was merely wary of it. Eventually, Meta took a few more steps forward. Nightmare waited, scraping his nails against the palms of his hands. If he was going to give Meta a good scare, he needed him to step further away from the cottage.

 

It took hours for Meta to approach the forest. His steps were halting and tentative. He paused by the edge of the woods and picked at a tree. It took Nightmare a few minutes to realize that Meta was marking the tree with his paws. After a few fruitless efforts, Meta slashed at the tree with the claw tipping his left wing. A small scratch split the bark, and satisfied, Meta moved on.

 

He was marking the way. Clever boy.

 

Nightmare followed, keeping his distance. He pulled his shadows slowly closer. If he made it dark too quickly, Meta would return; the child wouldn’t be so foolish as to stay in the forest after dark. “Father?” Meta called.

 

For the briefest sliver of a second, Nightmare thought he’d been caught. But no. Meta looked around hopefully, but his eyes never landed on the wizard.

 

“I’ll find Father, and everything will be fine,” Meta said. “He—he must’ve just gotten lost. Or lost track of the time. That’s all. Yes.”

 

Nightmare opened his mouth, on the verge of calling out to the child. He’d never—

 

No, he’d come that far. He’d waited months for Meta to disobey him, and it’d be a waste to abandon his plan on the verge of its payoff.

 

Meta kept walking. His emotions cycled between fear and wonder. This new world, this forbidden place, was also the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. After a few minutes, Meta stumbled upon a small, orange creature. Nightmare recognized it immediately as a scarfy, but Meta wouldn’t. The child had no frame of reference.

 

Meta, who was undoubtedly lonely and growing more frightened in the approaching night, laced with Nightmare's own powers, stared at the scarfy and did precisely what Nightmare had _told_ him to do if he was ever alone and frightened. He tried to inhale it.

 

The scarfy’s enraged scream and explosive anger didn’t startle Nightmare, but Meta screamed, his shrill voice shattering the night. The puffball scrambled back from the angered scarfy.

 

Interfere or no? Nightmare wouldn’t let Meta actually die, but it might be worthwhile to wait. Let the boy get torn up a bit. It’d be something he’d remember. The scarfy’s teeth latched into Meta’s right wing, and the puffball yelped. Meta thrashed, trying to dislodge it. They rolled around the ground, overturning rain-swollen leaves and splashing in the muddy earth. Eventually, Meta’s strategy worked—seemingly entirely by accident. Meta had knocked the thing into a tree. The second he was free, Meta ran, but the scarfy recovered too quickly for there to be much distance between them. “Stop it!” Meta shouted.

 

As if a _scarfy_ could be reasoned with. The scarfy moved closer, its teeth gleaming. Meta didn’t run. Instead, he squeezed his eyes closed and sat on the forest floor against the base of a tree. He trembled, his small body wracked with sobs. “Stop it! I’m sorry! Stop, please!”

 

Hadn’t that child learned that pleading did _nothing?_

The scarfy lunged. Wind tore through the forest, tearing apart a tree and throwing it at the scarfy, who fled with a startled shriek.

 

The wind hadn’t done that at Nightmare’s command, however. Nightmare leaned forward and observed Meta, gasping for breath and utterly unharmed. Had _Meta_ managed that? If so, how? Nightmare had no power over wind—only darkness and dreams. Had this boy managed to develop different powers? Perhaps, his magic and Nightmare’s could coexist. Perhaps, they had created something entirely new.

 

Nightmare’s heart quickened at the scent of terror. Poor creature, Meta had received a bit more than a scare, hadn’t he? The wizard drifted closer, drinking in the confusion and fear and Meta’s exhausted pants for breath. After several minutes, Meta turned around and walked right into the wizard.

 

Meta screamed. Upon recognizing his father, the puffball stumbled back and threw his paws over his mouth. The creature looked like he might bolt, so Nightmare strode closer and called his shadows to him, making it clear that fleeing wasn’t an option.

 

“You disobeyed me.”

 

Nightmare pointed to his feet. Mud and grass were caked in Meta’s wet fur, the membrane of his right wing was torn, and in spite of the puffball’s best efforts, tears fell down his cheeks. Meta trembled, while half-gasping, sobbing noises tore from his throat. When Nightmare leaned down, the puffball pulled his wings close to his body. It was a futile, desperate move to protect them from Nightmare’s wrath; ever since Meta had discovered his love for flying, Nightmare’s favored punishment had become clipping the boy’s wings. Amused, the wizard trailed a nail over the right one. The puffball tensed and squeezed his eyes closed. “Haven’t I told you to remain inside, boy?” Nightmare asked softly, kneading the thin, ripped membrane between his fingers.

 

“Poyo.”

 

“And haven’t I told you to speak _properly_ , Meta?”

 

When the boy didn’t answer, Nightmare dug his nails into Meta’s wing. “I could clip these,” Nightmare hissed. “Perhaps, you’d be more willing to obey me then.”

 

Meta’s eyes snapped open, wide and tear-filled. “Please,” Meta said. “It hurts when you—”

 

Of course, it did. Nightmare made sure of that. “Oh?”

 

“I’m sorry!” Meta blurted out. “I—just wanted…”

 

“And it’s all about you, isn’t it? Did you ever consider how worried I’d be when I returned and found you gone?”

 

The wizard watched it play out. The fiery flash of anger was always first, and it was—as always—hastily covered with averted eyes. Nightmare was Meta’s father, and Meta knew that his father was always in the right. His father was never wrong, and Meta was a selfish, bratty child if he felt the least hint of anger towards his father. On the rare occasion Meta’s anger didn’t fade, a bit of redirection was necessary. It seemed that would be the case; Meta looked like he was thinking too hard about the situation.

 

“Meta, I thought something terrible had happened,” Nightmare said, “And it very nearly did. Child, what were you thinking coming out at night with the sky looking so stormy? Did you think this would end well? I know you’re cleverer than that.”

 

Ah, there it was. If Meta was feeling feisty, picking at his intelligence usually did the trick. There was the delightful flood of guilt and embarrassment, rivaled only by the sudden onset of fear. Fear of Nightmare’s punishments and fear of having disappointed him. Finally, Meta settled on resignation; his suspicion that Nightmare was being unjust was silently and dutifully smothered by Meta’s love for his father. And because, deep down, Meta knew that he was powerless beside the Nightmare Wizard. Reluctantly, the puffball spread his trembling wings, waiting for Nightmare’s knife.

 

“How dare you cry?” Nightmare asked. “Haven’t I told you that tears are a weakness? Besides, you have no right to cry. I could’ve punished you far more harshly for this little rebellion of yours.”

 

Meta nodded and tried to stifle a sob. Guilt and self-loathing blossomed where there’d been terror before. “Y-yes, Father.”

 

 _Father._ The wizard’s own father was such a distant memory. He’d been kind and bland. And…strange how Nightmare remembered nothing _distinct_ about him. He’d been a decent father; Nightmare supposed, anyway. He’d treated him well. His father had treated him better than he treated Meta. At least, Nightmare thought that was the case.

 

It’d been easy for his father, though. He hadn’t been a leech, feeding off the negative emotions of whatever poor creature wandered into his path.

 

And Meta had never hurt anyone. He’d done nothing to warrant the way Nightmare treated him, and maybe…maybe Nightmare ought to treat the boy better. Yes. Yes, he would. Once he’d returned to his place as king and had his kingdom, he could feed off the misery of the very nobles and royals who’d rejected him. He could spare Meta, then. He could be nice to him, even. Allow him a little bit of freedom, perhaps. Wouldn’t Meta enjoy being allowed to fly in the sky rather than the cramped confines of the cottage, where his short flights would inevitably be interrupted by a stack of books or walls or hanging herbs?

 

Yes, Nightmare could be a better…father-figure. Someday.

 

Nightmare had utterly ruined this child. And the poor, stupid boy still offered Nightmare all his love and affection. Meta couldn’t even remember what it was like to have dreams. Or how pleasant the autumn wind could feel. The creature would never dare stray from home again.

 

Meta would never know how the ocean breeze felt on his face, how sweet the wild mint growing in the forest smelled, or how beautifully the full moon reflected onto the surface of a dark pool in the woods. He’d never know that beyond the small, magical island there was an entire world of technology and massive cities. They were failing in the face of ancient magic, which—after being dormant for so long—was resurfacing. And Meta would never know. He’d never know anything unless Nightmare allowed it. He’d never know that there was once—before Nightmare—some cute, absurd witch with a large green hat, embezzled with roses, had doted upon a small, nameless puffball. What had that woman’s name been? She’d told Nightmare as she led him to her house.

 

Had it been Stella? The meaning was right, but the language was wrong. Stella, Estrella, Stern, Astra—no. He couldn’t remember. It was something about stars.

 

He hadn’t listened. He’d been more interested in the dark blue puffball that skipped around beside her. What had she called Meta before Nightmare named him? It’d been something ridiculous for a small, ridiculous thing. It’d seemed like a foolish, little creature—something to feed off, study, and discard. Nightmare had been genuinely, pleasantly surprised to find it had diamond-hard fortitude. But even diamonds would break if enough pressure was applied, and more pleasingly, diamonds could shatter.

 

The wizard, feeling strangely soft about the child, put his knife away and patted Meta’s head to assure him that no offense had been taken. “You aren’t going to clip them?” Meta asked, his eyes wide and hopeful.

 

“No. On second thought, I do think you’ve been punished enough already. Don’t you?”

 

Unaccustomed to such generosity, Meta chirped happily and hugged the wizard’s robes. Meta rubbed his cheek against the fabric as if to really prove how grateful he was. What an absurd, sad child. It was fortunate that Meta hadn’t met some terrible end. Nightmare might’ve been lonely without the boy.

 

“You’re a mess,” Nightmare said quietly. “Don’t worry. I’ll take you home and get you cleaned up.”

 

“Thank you, Father.”

 

“Of course, my pet,” Nightmare replied, “But know that I won’t forgive you a second time. If you try this again, I will leave you here. How long do you think it’d be until some wolf got its teeth into you, especially if something happened to you?”

 

He lifted Meta into his arms, heedless of the mud that soaked through his sleeves. Meta rubbed his cheek against Nightmare’s shoulder, and absentmindedly, Nightmare patted Meta’s head. Although he seldom used it, Nightmare had a natural affinity for healing magic. Meta’s injuries would be gone before they even returned home.

 

 


	3. First Resistance

Meta’s entire body shook. He’d backed himself into a corner and wilted like a flower at the first breath of winter. If Nightmare listened hard enough, he could hear the boy’s soft whimpers. Tears pricked at the corners of Meta’s eyes. “ _Suck it up_ ,” Nightmare hissed.

 

Meta put both his paws over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. It must’ve hurt. Nightmare felt his own powers lap eagerly at the thickness of Meta’s fear and pain. It must be _agonizing_. Nightmare’s resolve faltered. The poor creature kept trying, even though it was becoming quickly apparent that he couldn’t possibly succeed. Maybe it was...cruel to let Meta keep trying when the end result was so obvious.

 

Meta had lost his ability to inhale.

 

“Enough,” Nightmare said. “You may dispose of it.”

 

Meta spat out the chilly which bounced angrily, its bell jingling. With a scowl and a burst of his magic, Nightmare destroyed the creature.

 

Meta’s gold eyes were dull. “I’m sorry, Father,” he whispered.

 

“It isn’t your fault,” Nightmare replied, “But you won’t be able to join me on the battlefield.”

 

“But I want to, Father!” Meta protested. “I can control the wind and fly! I can—”

 

“I said _no_.”

 

Meta fell silent and averted his eyes. Nightmare strode away and let the creature sink into a tangle of self-loathing and distress. If Meta no longer had his trademark ability, Nightmare would have to find another incarnation to study. Incarnations were rare, but Nightmare had found Meta. He could find another and be more careful with the new one. Not corrupt its magic as quickly and as thoroughly as he had Meta's.

 

“You’ll stay here, and I’ll take my other demons with me,” Nightmare said, thinking aloud. “Once I’ve conquered the kingdom, I’ll send for you. Then, we’ll work on improving your mastery over wind. I might be able to teach you some of my tricks, also.”

 

It wasn’t enough to assuage Meta’s disappointment, but Nightmare had no intention of trying any harder. He was on the verge of conquest, on taking back the kingdom which had exiled him to this Nova-forsaken island! On becoming Emperor Nightmare! On sweeping in with the army of demons, carefully crafted with his magic and Meta’s blood, and laying waste to all. This problem with Meta could be dealt with another time, and it wasn't long thereafter that Nightmare went to conquer those who'd shunned him and left his small, quiet child alone.

 

* * *

 

 

Without his father, Meta was lonely and bored, and neither loneliness nor boredom mixed well with a small child. The longer he was left alone, the more Meta began to think. Father was angry that Meta had lost his ability to Copy. Meta knew he couldn’t keep Copying, but what if he just…

 

Just managed one ability. It wouldn’t be Father’s desired Copy, but any ability was better than none, wasn’t it? Yes, surely.

 

Meta cast his wide, golden eyes over the cabin, although he already knew the power he wanted. In his heart, there was only one thing Meta had ever wanted to be: a knight. Meta’s paws trembled as he freed a sword from beneath his father’s fur pelts and a heavy book on dream-magic. The sword was flecked with rust but sharp, and Meta trembled at the thought of trying to swallow it. The chilly had hurt bad enough. The thought of having a sharpened, bladed weapon inside of him and of trying to swallow it made Meta feel sick.

 

But this was the only way to gain Sword.

 

Meta opened his mouth wide and swallowed it. Immediately, he clapped his paws over his mouth. His stomach lurched, trying to force the blade back out. Although he tried to remain still, Meta writhed on the ground, his body rejecting his attempts to Copy. This was worse than anything he’d ever imagined. He was hot and sore, and everything seemed like too much. He felt like the edge of the blade was slicing through him and like his insides were falling apart and rearranging, and he was dying. Surely, dying. And dear Nova, what if Father returned, and he was  _dead_?

 

Nova, it hurt more than anything he’d ever felt, but he _had_ to do it. He had to please Father. He had to get one power, any power, _this_ power. If there was a star-goddess, she must see him, and she  _must_ surely have mercy. He was trying so hard.

 

Suddenly, he’d done it. Energy surged into Meta’s body, and he knew he’d succeeded. He sank to the floor and pressed his cheek against the dirt. His tears were hot on his bare face. Everything hurt, but he’d _done_ it. Father would be proud of him. Father _had_ to be.

 

Meta’s eyes fell on the sword, now beautiful and new. Its blade gleamed like starlight. Slowly and reverently, Meta reached out, grasped the hilt, and hugged the blade against his sore body. Meta curled his wings over himself as a makeshift blanket and fell into a shallow sleep.

 

It was a strange, optimistic sleep. Meta dreamed of being in a wood where everything was bathed in starlight. Everything was soft, warm, and safe.

 

And when Nightmare’s monsters summoned Meta to the wizard’s newly conquered, Meta—sword in hand—skipped into his father’s new throne room. It was a grim place, but Meta wouldn’t realize that until much later. Meta’s father rose and lifted his child into his arms. A purr rumbled in Meta’s throat. He drank in the soft slipperiness of Nightmare’s silk, the water-and-mahogany scent of Father, and the shifting darkness of Father’s powers. “I’m Sword Meta!” Meta cried, prepared for praise.

 

Nightmare’s face was confused. “How?”

 

“I Copied it!” Meta exclaimed. “It hurt very badly, but I did it! I gained an ability for you! I don’t think I can do it again, but I—”

 

“But you Copied one last ability and made it _Sword_. Meta, _anyone_ can learn to use a sword! If you were going to Copy something, it should’ve been something elemental—ice, fire, leaf—anything but _S_ _word_!”

 

Meta’s happiness faded like light in the face of a moonless and star-starved night.

 

“You’re destined to be neither a knight nor a fair damsel, Meta,” Nightmare said. “You’re far too old to indulge in that kind of nonsense. Sword? What a useless gift.”

 

_Useless? Useless. Useless!_

 

Nightmare sat Meta down gently, and the gentleness in the gesture only worsened the child’s dismay. Meta stared at his feet. “I’m sorry, Father,” he whispered.

 

“It’s fine,” Nightmare replied, seeming sincere. “It’s better than nothing, and this is a glorious moment for us, child! Look at what we have! I’ve finally reclaimed my kingdom, my rightful place!”

 

Meta forced a smile. He should be happy for his father. Father had accomplished his goal, and now his father would be _happy_.

 

Nightmare patted Meta’s head as an apology, and Meta fell into the touch, desperate to prove how grateful he was for the affection and the forgiveness of making such a foolish decision. Too quickly, Nightmare swept away. He bid Meta pick a room for himself. To prepare himself for being Prince Meta.

 

Meta sat on the cold stone floor for a very long time in a sort of detached numbness. Once that numbness was gone, he screamed. His cry was shrill and bat-like, echoing along the walls. He unsheathed his sword and threw it towards the wall. Empowered with a supernatural prowess in swordplay, the blade landed effortlessly between two stones in the wall and lodged itself there. “Why am I so useless?” Meta whispered. “So _foolish_."

 

A whippy peeked inside, and Meta jumped, taken aback by the sudden intrusion and embarrassed by his own weakness. “It’s time!” the monster said. “The master desires your presence.”

 

 

Meta climbed to his feet and retrieved his sword. “I’m ready,” he said.

 

Then, he followed the whippy down spiraling stairs and castle passages. Soon, they left the confines of the castle and entered the courtyard. There were many demons there, all howling and screaming beneath the moonlight. There were others, too—beings that resembled Nightmare. Many of them were bound with ropes and chains. Meta identified them immediately as prisoners; he knew from his knight books what would happen next. Father, being an honorable man, would offer the prisoners the opportunity to be his subjects, and if they refused, he would duel them. If the prisoners won, they would be free to leave, and if they failed, they were honor-bound to become Nightmare’s subjects. And indeed, the Nightmare Wizard, a large, gleaming sword in his hand, stood at the head of the crowd. The whippy brought Meta closer, and Meta leaned forward with interest, waiting to see the sort of surrender he’d always read about in his knight books.

 

But Father offered no chivalric offers or declarations. Instead, he raised his sword and brought it down on the neck belonging to one of the Nightmare-like creatures. Time seemed to crystallize into a jewel. Cold, hard, and unmoving. There was no honor here. No mercy in this. There was only a dead creature and so much blood, spilling onto the grass like a too-bright red wine. When Meta finally drew his eyes to the man who'd raised him, he saw that Father smiled. 

 

There was screaming and crying, and Meta seemed to have lost all awareness. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He could only do one thing, and he could only do it haphazardly. Nightmare lifted his sword, still dripping with blood, and Meta unsheathed his wings and dove towards it. Meta's paws vibrated as he parried Nightmare's blade. No matter how skilled, though, the force of Nightmare's blow, sent Meta plummeting to the grass.

 

For a single, long moment in time, Meta stared at his father and scrambled for words. "You can't," Meta finally rasped. "It's...dishonorable."

 

And although his first resistance was small, Nightmare's anger was great.

 


	4. Galaxia

Everything that followed remained in sharp, piercing clarity. When he reflected on it later, Meta often felt cheated. He’d read of bad memories, and those were meant to be repressed—forgotten in a mist of trauma. Meta remembered every moment, though.

 

He remembered Father at his most powerful and the thrashing that had followed. He remembered the sting and crack of the monster trainer’s whip. He remembered thinking that it couldn’t possibly be any worse. Then, Meta had been left in a cage and forgotten.

 

His few, treasured scraps of sleep were haunted with nightmares. He was sore and thirsty and so, so hungry. And even though it was very dark, Meta could tell that his vision would never be the same. He saw everything through a soft, drizzling sort of mist.

 

But the worst of all—perhaps—was that Meta had been left with too much time to reflect upon his misdeeds, and the longer he thought about them, the less he was sure of who he hated—his father or himself.

 

The Nightmare Wizard had finally remembered him. For an impossibly long moment, they simply stared at one another. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the cage door opened. Meta scrambled out and buried his face in his father’s robes. Nightmare peeled him off.

 

“Move, and I won’t hesitate to put you right back in that cage. Understand?” Nightmare’s voice was like ice.

 

This wasn’t going to be like any of the numerous other times where Meta had disobeyed; in that instant, Meta knew he wouldn’t be forgiven. He’d crossed the line.

 

“Yes, Father.”

 

Nightmare inspected Meta’s wings first. The wizard pinched the torn membrane and places where there were broken bones. Meta squeezed his eyes closed and tried desperately not to move or make a sound. But he wouldn’t help it. Nightmare pinched to hard, and Meta futilely tried to pull away. Lightning shot through Meta’s back, making him scream and thrash in the wizard’s grip. “But you’re hurting me!”

 

The wizard dropped Meta on the floor, leaving the puffball to shakily climb to his feet. “You’re certainly not much to look at anymore, are you?” Nightmare asked, tracing a dagger-wound across Meta’s face. The wizard lingered over one of Meta’s blush-marks. “Are you blind?”

 

“No,” Meta mumbled.

 

“Hm. You’re angry, aren’t you?” Nightmare asked. “Do you think I’ve been unjust, Meta?”

 

Meta stumbled backwards in an ill-thought attempt to protect himself. As if Nightmare couldn’t just grab him anyway. “Please, stop.”

 

“You think I’m so merciless? After everything I’ve done for you? You selfish, ungrateful creature! Well, perhaps, you’ll think differently after meeting _her_ ,” Nightmare snarled. “Maybe you’ll see how generous I’ve really been.”

 

“Her?”

 

Nightmare seized Meta’s wing and pulled him off the ground. Reflexively, Meta grabbed at Nightmare’s wrist, trying to relieve the pressure and pain that jolted through his wing and back. His paws were too small to reach. “I hate you!” Meta exclaimed.

 

He wanted Nightmare to _hurt_. The wizard only laughed and swept from the room, still dragging Meta by his wing. The puffball dangled from the wizard’s grip; he managed to grasp Nightmare’s robe and relieve some of the pressure, but it still ached.

 

“You hate me. Didn’t I take care of you for thousands of years? Didn’t I make sure you were warm and fed? Didn’t I treat your injuries and indulge your little, childish fantasies?”

 

“You—”

 

“I’m not finished. Even when you were defiant, I took you back again and again. And how do you repay me? By defying me before my demonbeasts. To save some selfish, traitorous royals, and not a _one_ of them tried to stop your punishment. Not a one of them so much as spoke up, while you were bleeding on the ground and fighting for their sake. Were they worth all this, Meta?”

 

His father was right. Meta slowly released his grip on the wizard’s robes. His body trembled, suddenly hurting so much more without the small amount of pressure gone. But he deserved it, didn’t he? He _had_ defied Nightmare for the people that had betrayed and usurped him. Meta, himself, had as good as betrayed his father. “If you were anyone else, I’d kill you,” Nightmare said.

 

Meta shuddered involuntarily and rubbed his burning eyes, before Nightmare could see his tears. “Father—”

 

“Father? You think you’re worthy of being called my son? I thought I was cruel and that you hated me, Meta.”

 

Meta felt his face warm from shame and exertion. No, he really wasn’t worthy of being Nightmare’s son—especially not after he’d said such awful things. The wizard dropped him, and Meta fell hard on the ground. He bit back a yelp and crumbled at Nightmare’s feet. He kept his gaze on the ground, even as Nightmare stepped over him. “Pathetic,” the wizard said. “No creation of mine could possibly be this much of a failure. Not only are you _weak_ , you’re _defective_.”

 

Meta didn’t trust his voice not to shake. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to keep his breath from hitching. A lock clicked, and a door creaked open.

 

“You’ve been a bad child,” Nightmare said, “But if you can prove to me that you’re strong…I’ll forgive you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

 

Meta nodded and chanced a glance up, as the wizard rounded to stand before him. The wizard smiled, but it wasn’t reassuring. Meta’s own pained and ragged face stared back at him in the reflection of Nightmare’s glasses. “Do you remember the stories about Galaxia?” Nightmare asked.

 

Meta’s breath caught in his throat. Protesting wouldn’t do any good; this was a death sentence. He couldn’t survive Galaxia’s fire. “D-do you want me to die?” Meta asked, his voice small.

 

“She might not kill you. If you’re strong enough, you’ll survive, and if not, you’re weak and don’t deserve to live. That’s progress, dear one. The strong survive, and the weak die out. It’s clear that you already have a weak heart. Let’s see how weak.”

 

Nightmare grabbed Meta’s wing and hauled him up again, before tossing the puffball into the chamber. Meta struggled to hold himself up on his shaking paws. “Wh-what will happen if I—I—”

 

“I imagine she’ll rip you apart,” Nightmare replied nonchalantly. “Good luck.”

 

Meta managed to keep himself together until the wizard left. Then, he burst into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing. He ought to face his death with grace and dignity. But he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be tortured. He didn’t want Galaxia’s sacred fire to burn him apart like it did in Father’s stories. Meta lifted his head and stared at the sword’s gleaming mirror-finish. Being a dark creature in Galaxia’s presence was enough to warrant a painful death; she was made to destroy darkness. What if he actually touched her sacred blade, though? That was surely a greater violation. Would it be quicker? Hot tears streaked down his cheeks and landed on his paws. Tears? He realized too late that he was crying, and undoubtedly, there was something worse coming. When people saw weakness, they went for the throat. He was going to die, and it was going to be slow and painful. He shouldn’t have defied Father.

 

"I hardly think the creature is deserving of the title _Father."_ The voice was beautiful, conjuring forth images of starry nights and softly roaring waves.

 

The voice sounded so _nice_. It must be a trap, some sort of punishment for being weak and stupid. Soft, warm fingers lighted on his wings, gently petting. He tensed, waiting for the façade of niceness to vanish and be replaced with something vicious. Waiting for those same fingers to dig into his shattered bones and torn skin. She gave punishments that same way Nightmare did—soft, gentle pets followed by clawing and pinching. “The wizard did hurt you so, didn’t he?”

 

Meta swallowed. Maybe if he buried his anger, maybe if he pretended to be demure and obedient, Galaxia wouldn’t tear him apart. Maybe she’d just beat him up a bit. “I—I deserved it. I was being selfish.”

 

“I’ve no intention of hurting you, dear heart.”

 

Meta chanced a look up, and his breath caught in his throat. The person before him was beautiful beyond words. No, _she_ was beautiful beyond words. The woman’s face greatly resembled Nightmare’s. She was grey-skinned like Nightmare, too. Her eyes and hair were the haunting red like freshly spilled blood. Her golden armor gleamed like the sun in the darkness. She looked beautiful, cold, and unnatural. Destroyer of darkness, indeed. The slayer of everything that Meta and Nightmare were. “You’re beautiful!” Meta blurted out.

 

Her smile left him breathless. “I appear only as you think I should,” she said. “If I am beautiful, it is only because you think I ought to be. Oh, but I’ve not properly introduced myself, have I? I am Galaxia.”

 

She sounded so nice! She must be really furious, then, and she intended to drag it out. Meta averted his eyes; surely, he wasn’t even worthy of looking at such a celestial being.

 

“Drag it out? I’ve already said that I’ve no intention of harming you, dear heart.”

 

And he’d be a fool if he believed her. As if a thing of darkness—a thing like him—would ever be deserving of Galaxia’s mercy. He tried desperately to blink back tears. He didn’t want to be brave or defiant anymore. He just wanted Father to love him again—no, not even love him. That was impossible after such a great offense.  Just not let Galaxia hurt him. That would be enough.

 

As Galaxia pulled him into her lap, her hard, unforgiving armor shifted into soft, warm velvet. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close to her belly. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I promise it’s all right. I won’t hurt you.”

 

He felt so tired. It was too easy to settle back into her embrace and let her coddle him.

 

“You’re supposed to destroy darkness,” Meta said hesitantly.

 

“Is that what the wizard told you? I destroy injustice and cruelty. I couldn’t care less about the source of your powers, dearest.”

 

“But Father…”

 

“Meta, that creature is unworthy of your love and equally unworthy of being called your father.”

 

She was trying to turn him against Father. The realization struck him like a sword-blow. No. No, no, no. He scrambled from Galaxia’s lap, desperate to put distance between them. “No, stop. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to turn me against him, so we destroy each other.”

 

“Dear heart, I would never wish _you_ ill,” she said.

 

No, this was it, wasn’t it? He was supposed to defy this celestial creature before him. _That_ was how she derived her judgment. She’d hurt him, then—

 

“Meta, I won’t!”

 

If he survived, Father would take him back. Meta could make up for messing up so badly. Galaxia’s eyes were wide and horrified. “Meta, why would you _want_ him to take you back? Look at what he’s done to you!”

 

“He punished me because I defied him before his court,” Meta said evenly. “He showed great mercy in not just killing me outright.”

 

“You can’t even fly anymore!”

 

“He was making a point—”

 

“By nearly blinding you?”

 

“I can still see! That just means I’ll have a reminder of the mistake, so I won’t make it again!”

 

“A mistake? Meta, you were so _brave_.”

 

“I was stupid,” the puffball said flatly.

 

“Stupid…?” Galaxia stepped closer, so Meta darted further back; test or not, he felt a sharp pang of guilt when he looked at her sad, imploring face.

 

“I was a bad child. That’s all.”

 

“You aren’t a bad child.”

 

Meta scowled. “Now I know you’re lying. You’re trying to turn me against Father! Because—because you hate him!”

 

“And you still love him, don’t you? Even though he’s done this to you? But you’re angry, too. Because he’s hurt you this badly. Because you’re so convinced that you _are_ just weak and stupid that when you feel _anything_ , you’re convinced it’s just another weakness.”

 

“Stop—”

 

“When you’re lonely, you tell yourself that it’s because you’re weak. When you’re broken-hearted, you tell yourself that it’s because you’re weak. And you’re terrified even to _think_ about the fact that Nightmare causes you to feel these things. And you’re arguing with me because you’re afraid of him and of me, but moreover, you’re terrified that I understand this all far better than you do.”

 

“You don’t know anything.”

 

“I’ve judged you already, Meta. I’ve seen everything you’ve ever done and everything you’ve ever thought. I’ve seen everything Nightmare has done _to_ you as well. I know exactly what I’m talking about, and I know that you aren’t willing to leave him. But someday you will be, and when you are, I’ll be waiting.”

 

“You’re wrong,” Meta said, preparing himself for the brunt of her fury.

 

“I wish I was,” Galaxia replied.

 

And then, she was gone like the stars in the face of dawn. The room was darker without her, and shakily, Meta climbed to his feet, unsure when he’d even fallen. Nothing hurt. Why didn’t everything hurt? Meta experimentally flicked his wings. They seemed…fine. The bones weren’t broken. His back didn’t hurt. His face didn’t hurt.

 

Galaxia, the terrible slayer of darkness, had healed his injuries.  

 

 


	5. Destiny

The Nightmare Wizard wasn’t surprised that Galaxia had healed Meta Knight’s injuries. Despite her nature of judging and punishing the unjust, Nightmare had known she would never harm a child, and despite all the threats and all the terrible stories he'd told Meta, the Nightmare Wizard had hoped she _would_ heal Meta's injuries. Seeing that she had, the wizard had quietly descended into Galaxia’s chamber and scooped Meta, sleeping deeply, off the stones by Galaxia’s pedestal. The wizard gently ran his fingers of Meta's newly healed wings and his unmarred back. 

 

With a burst of light and fire, Galaxia appeared. She was tall and pale like an aspen tree, dressed as always in gold, elaborately etched armor. The irises of her eyes were red like freshly spilled blood, and her long hair resembled spider's silk. _Alb of Traumwald,_ she greeted, her voice a faint sighing of the wind.

Nightmare scowled and pulled Meta more tightly against his chest. “Spare me your sentimentality,” the wizard said.

 

 _Perhaps some sentimentality would stay your hand,_ Galaxia replied.

 

“I could do without your lectures, too. I know I have erred. I didn’t realize they would...go that far. The monster tamers are supposed to train monsters to be merciless. I thought they would discipline him, I didn’t think they would...”

 

 _Would do what_?

 

“I don’t have to justify myself to you. You were there when my people betrayed me, and you did nothing.”

 

Galaxia’s face softened. _You know as well as I the rules by which I am bound._

“Right,” Nightmare sneered. “You can only lend your fire to your champion, of course. But you’ve existed here for _how long_ , Galaxia? And now, you’ll spend the rest of eternity here with me. It seems destiny fails everyone. Even you.”

 

_How little you know._

Nightmare clenched his jaw and approached her. Despite the heat and anger of Galaxia’s fire, Nightmare locked eyes with her. It hurt, but the pain was worth defying her. _Angering_ her.

 

“I ignored the whispers of dissent the first time,” Nightmare hissed. “I thought that I could rule justly and fairly. I supported magic and the arts. I let my people voice their complaints, and I lost everything. My own _wife_ joined the rebellion against me.”

 

_And do you think hurting that poor boy in your arms will make him less likely to hate you?_

“I’ve already told you that I didn’t mean for things to turn out that way! I didn’t think they’d torture him, and I’ve punished the ones who did it. And I brought him to you!” Nightmare snapped. “You—”

 

Meta mumbled softly, and Nightmare’s eyes snapped down to the puffball.

 

 _There was no other way,_ Galaxia murmured.

 

Before Nightmare could question what she meant, Galaxia vanished, leaving only a trace of warmth and a few dying embers that twinkled quickly out of existence in the dark room. Meta’s eyes fluttered open, and Nightmare’s pulse raced. Instead of their familiar moon-silver, Meta’s eyes were the same sun-gold as Galaxia’s blade.

 

“Hello, dearest,” Nightmare rasped. "How do you feel?"

 

Meta’s face was strange and blank. “I’m fine, Father.”

 

Fine? Oh, no. The puffball trembled like autumn leaves at the first icy breath of winter, and his emotions flitted in the air in a muddled mess of confusion, anger, pain, and fear.

 

Any lingering traces of Nightmare’s anger drifted away. Slowly, he sank to the ground and hugged Meta close to him. Although he hadn’t cried in centuries, Nightmare’s eyes burned with unshed tears.

 

“How can I...” Meta trailed off.

 

They didn’t look at one another.

 

“How can you what?” Nightmare asked softly.

 

“How can I make it better?” Meta finally said. “How can I make you not hate me anymore?”

 

“I don’t hate you,” Nightmare said, “And I’m sorry, my sweet child. I lost my kingdom last time, and it began with little actions like yours. Just little acts of defiance. In the end, even the people I loved turned against me.”

 

“Oh.”

 

The wizard’s gentle hand petted Meta’s head and wings. “And I...I was afraid,” Nightmare admitted, “And I shouldn’t have reacted like I did. I shouldn’t have been so impulsive. I just assumed you’d get a few lashes at most. Some time to think about your mistake. I didn’t...”

 

Meta believed him, but he didn’t forgive him.

 

And Nightmare, in a rare moment of self-honesty, knew he deserved that. “I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Nightmare murmured. “I’ll never make you feel unloved ever again.”

 

Deep inside, the Nightmare Wizard’s heart ached, and he genuinely, truly _did_ want to make Meta happy. When Meta was happy, it made Nightmare happy. But even then, Nightmare couldn’t help the doubt from spreading through his mind. Being in Galaxia’s presence was enough to cast the world into a painful, sharp clarity. Despite his best intentions, Nightmare knew he had gone too far and become too twisted and too dark and too selfish to care for Meta the way he ought to be, and maybe it was for the best if Nightmare just...let him go. Yes. He ought to let Meta go and become the knight in shining armor he’d always dreamed about being.

 

When Nightmare looked at Meta’s face and his wide, gold eyes, everything fell into place. The gold eyes wasn’t an unintentional quirk of Galaxia’s powers; they were a marking. Destiny had failed King Alb, had failed the Nightmare Wizard, but it hadn’t failed Galaxia.

 

And, it seemed, it hadn’t failed Meta. This defiant, little creature wasn’t just a whisper of dissent. He was the destined wielder of Galaxia, the destroyer of everything Nightmare was. Someday, Meta might be Nightmare’s undoing. Unless Nightmare killed him. The wizard could do it. He knew how to kill an incarnation. It was hard but not impossible. Slay the only wielder Galaxia had chosen in a million years and leave her lonely and trapped and helpless. Ensure that this _threat_ wasn’t around.

 

“Father? You look sad,” Meta said.

 

The Nightmare Wizard forced a smile. “It’s only the guilt over my misdeeds,” he said. “You needn’t worry about me.”

 

 _I’ll take good care of him,_ Galaxia murmured, her words only for Nightmare.

 

_I know._

 

 


End file.
